


Both In Our Stars and In Ourselves

by sunrisenpoet



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Background Enjolras/Grantaire, Gen, Platonic Enjolferre, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, mentions of transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 11:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15142208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrisenpoet/pseuds/sunrisenpoet
Summary: Combeferre had always made him feel a little lost, because Combeferre was simply the most intelligent human he has ever met.





	Both In Our Stars and In Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jehancourf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehancourf/gifts).



Enjolras sometimes looked at Combeferre, wondering what it would have been like if they had existed in different circumstances. If, say, his relationship with Grantaire hadn't been a thing, or Les Amis had never formed; or if Combeferre had stuck with Medicine, or if he had decided not to study in Paris (he could have stayed in Edinburgh, or could have attended any other university, making it very unlikely for them to meet). Enjolras knew swimming in hypotheticals was pretty useless, but didn't stop him from doing so, nor from thinking about Combeferre talking — for the nth time — about how everything is connected, how all things always are part of a bigger picture. He quite uncompromisingly believed in the relevance of everything.

If Enjolras close his eyes, he can remember how Combeferre gesticulates when he speaks. "If all existence is poetry, Enjolras," he had told him one time, standing in the middle of their tiny kitchen "and all poetry is part of a greater poem, written and inwoven in time, then so are out existences. Not linear but cyclic... maybe." He also wondered how many different possible outcomes for their friendship Combeferre himself could come up with in his mind: how many thousands of different retellings and combinations of how they could've met, or would've never met. However many Enjolras can't fathom, which makes him feel a little lost.

Combeferre had always made him feel a little lost, but he has come to terms with it.

Besides, all the people he loves made him a little lost: Grantaire for his contradictions, Courfeyrac for simply existing (he truly was one of the most remarkable people he has ever met); Bossuet for always managing to be happy, even when he felt hopeless. Joly for his generosity, Feuilly for their resilience and determination to  _live_  despite it all, Jehan for being able to bring the beauty out of the worst situations, Bahorel for being larger than life.

And Combeferre? He made him lost because Combeferre was simply the most intelligent human he has ever met.

 

* * *

They met Courfeyrac because of Combeferre.

Back on the winter semester on their first year in uni, the three of them had happened to have the same class together, but because the University had "beef" with Courfeyrac being an overseas student (his words) they wouldn't give him the lecture, not officially at least. So Courfeyrac could only join a couple of weeks after the beginning of the term, on a week Enjolras had been absent because he had a cold (according to Enjolras it was allergies, Combeferre disagreed, Combeferre was right), and of course, his friend joined forces with the other vocal Marxist in the classroom, then Combeferre offered his notes to Courfeyrac, and that was the end of the story. Well, both the beginning and the end of it.

The end of it because Combeferre and Enjolras had spent their first semester a little wrapped up around the other, so the addition of a third person into the duo marked a point of no return: nothing would ever be the same after Courfeyrac found them, and whatever path the universe had originally coined for the Unity (as Les Amis liked to call Enjolras-and-Combeferre) was altered forever. Whether it was by their fault or by their stars is absolutely irrelevant. Thus, the ending lead the way to a beginning, and Courfeyrac gave them the final push they needed to make Les Amis de l'ABC happen. Him and Enjolras outlined how let people know of the group — "Courfeyrac's Mighty Communicational Strategy" — and Combeferre figured out most of the logistics behind it, as well as finding them a café to meet up, and the café brought them to Jehan.

“Enjolras, you must meet this wonderful creature, we’ve been talking about romanticism  _for hours,_ ” Combeferre had said. 

When Jehan met Courfeyrac they asked Enjolras and Combeferre how they met. "We're roomates," Combeferre replied. 

Before any of them could say anything else, Jehan and Courfeyrac yelled " _and they were roomates_ " at a disturbingly spontaneous unison, and bursted out laughing. Enjolras blinked, a little startled by the yelling, but eventually caught the vine reference. Combeferre, however, had absolutely no idea why Jehan and Courfeyrac were screaming, which was pretty telling on how weird the man could be. 

"Am I," he began, "am I supposed to understand why you two seemed possessed by the same entity at the same time? Do I want to understand?" Combeferre's voice was as collected as usual, yet Enjolras who had had time to get to know him fairly well, could tell he was somewhere between curious and concerned. 

"Oh my God, you haven't seen it?" Courfeyrac said. "It's from Vine, you know Vine right?" If Combeferre sounded a little stung when he replied he  _did_ know Vine, neither Jehan nor Courfeyrac mentioned it — instead, the former began promptly searching for the Vine in question, and the latter only said how Ferre's life was about to change. Combeferre had never minded people knowing more than him, in whatever are, but he did care about he  _himself_  not knowing, and could be very particular when it came to people questioning him out of nowhere. One way or another, whatever poise he had lost was quickly regained. 

 

Over the years Enjolras had seen Combeferre become kinder, more open, softer, wiser, and slightly less concerned with appearing like an all-capable, last man standing (as slightly less as he could, given how important being competent was for Combeferre, and how much pride he had in his own competence and his own intelligence). Loosening up suited Combeferre, but for all he had loosened up, he hadn't lost puzzled look when something caught him by surprise, and Enjolras was still fascinated by it: Combeferre looked perplexed for a moment, as if someone had pushed him or pulled the rug under his feet, losing balance for a moment, only to regain said balance in less than a moment. Those briefs seconds of transitional inertia became apparent with so many things which happened to Combeferre: when he wanted to snap at someone but chose not to, or when he chose kind honesty instead of sarcasm; when he became disoriented, or when it took him a little longer than usual to think of a witty comeback. In Enjolras' opinion, every time it happened was equally mesmerising to see.

He wondered if that is how Michelangelo's amanuenses felt when they watched him paint.

 

* * *

On their way home, Combeferre began talking about culture and the evolution of society, and how maybe their generation was developing a hive mind through memes. 

 

* * *

Knowing Enjolras-and-Combeferre was knowing for most things one came with the other. More often than not they worked like a unity, and often joked about having a hive mind. Everyone, including themselves, including  _Grantaire_ , said they were married, and they called each other pet names, 'husband', and made jokes about it a fair share. A fluctuating number of people thought they were a couple — again, including Grantaire, who had to be told by Combeferre Enjolras and him weren't a romantic couple, so he had "free reign in that department". Because yes they loved each other to bits, but they truly were just friends, and the few people who had gotten obnoxious about it, had soon learnt to stop, or they'd have this double headed menace ranting at them about romanticisation and the toxicity and heteronormativity of pushing a "secret crush" narrative into their "pure, wholesome, gay and supportive" friendship.

It didn't mean there wasn't a time when Enjolras wondered if Combeferre had a crush on him, for the unparalleled pleasure of self-sabotage. Because while he  _knew_  what was going on, the thought was still  _there —_ knowing in this brief episode of their friendship (Enjolras, out of embarrassment didn't like to think about it) was absolutely irrelevant: he knew he was in a loving, monogamous relationship with Grantaire and he knew he didn't want that to change; he knew Combeferre didn't do things "just because" and not only meant his words, but also wouldn't lie to him. Yet, knowing Combeferre was knowing his flaws, and if there was one flaw which Combeferre possessed which Enjolras couldn't deny was his ability to close himself off, and rise emotional barriers at incredible speed, even for those he was friends with.

If Combeferre didn't want certain people —'certain' encapsulating possibly anyone depending on the circumstances — to know to know something, then he could become the most hermetic person to walk this earth. It was the only thing Combeferre did which got into Enjolras nerves: while he really appreciated that Combeferre had let him know him (because if Combeferre lets people know him, it's because he wants them to do so), this particular downside of it wasn't so fun. Courfeyrac and him joked a fair amount that their friend would make an excellent stereotypically machiavellian villain, with his mystery, air of poshness, competence, cats and his aren't-I-so-intelligent moments, yet when chimeric machinations took over Enjolras' brain, the jokes weren't as funny anymore.

 

It wasn't that Combeferre had began acting differently, either. It was just Enjolras knowing Combeferre so well, he knew if he ever felt his feelings would hurt Enjolras and Grantaire, he would never say anything. He'd rather suffocate under piles of unshared knowledge, before harming someone he cared about, before harming for the sake of doing harm. Whether Combeferre was or not indeed capable of harming someone for the sake of it was of no consequence — what made his friend Himself was he was capable of many things, yet he didn't chose, for better or for worse, all he was capable of; it was how utterly convinced Combeferre was he could be a good man, a great man, without overstepping others, what made Combeferre who he was. 

He'd rather be wronged, than do wrong. At least 99% of the time, and 100% more than he gave himself credit for. Enjolras knew Combeferre was more self-sacrificing than he said he was, more generous than he said he was, more human than he pretended not to be. Everyone always said Courfeyrac had a heart of gold, which he did, but truth be told, Combeferre had a heart of hearts. It just happened his heart was an extension of that powerhouse of a brain he possessed.

Combeferre was sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee directly from his beloved Chemex, the left crystal of his glasses more smudged than the right one, and his hair ruffled in various directions. There barely were parts of the table not occupied by his various books, an eclectic arrange of mugs, and pens (after R and Feuilly, Combeferre had an alarming amount of pens and pencils, and he always carried one, and he used all of them). There was a half eaten apple on top of a pile of books, and the cold light from his computer made him look tired and vaguely menacing, for some reason.

"What are you up to?" Enjolras asked.

Combeferre sighed a little. "The usual," he said. "Fighting the West through yet  _another_  paper on power and politics. Which, by the way, you're going to love."

"Oh, worm?"

"Wormest, beloved. Wanna hear about it?"

Enjolras laughed. "You're such a weird little man, I swear to God. Of course I wanna, make room for me."

"As if you weren't a weird little man yourself, Enjo," Combeferre said with a smirk as he moved on his chair so Enjolras could sit too.

"Shut up, tell me about your paper."

Combeferre's accent was a mixture of so many different things, it made an almost completely unique accent on it's own. It wasn't entirely Parisian, but it wasn't entirely  _not_  Parisian either; he also had a soothing way of narrating things (even when he got heated up) which tended to make Enjolras wrapped up around whatever it was that Combeferre was talking about, even if it was a topic which didn't particularly interest him, let alone when it did interest him. It made him wonder if  _he_  didn't have a bit of a crush on Combeferre, but in his defence he thought every single member of Les Amis had a bit of a crush on him. 

They all joked Enjolras was the leader because he was so pretty he attracted people by thirst, but while he was ridiculously handsome, Enjolras was sure if they wanted to really go through that strategy, they should use Combeferre. And Courfeyrac, and Feuilly, and well,  _ Grantaire _  (that might be just him), but specially Combeferre.

When they met Marius, Marius had thought Combeferre was Enjolras, becase Courfeyrac had told him Combeferre was the smart one, and Enjolras was the hot one. So he walked into the café, and approached whom he must have thought qualified as "the hot one" in the room. “You must be Enjolras, I’m Marius Pontmercy,” he said, putting his hand forward.

Combeferre had smiled one of his many small smiles (the amused one), and said Enjolras was the one over  _ there  _ , that he was Combeferre, and had heard a nice deal about him, and reckoned Courfeyrac had said Marius was interested in joining them. Whatever had happened after that, the whole ‘to be free’ affair, and the murderous look Enjolras and him had given Courfeyrac for making them deal with  _ that _ , was irrelevant to the matter at hand. Marius had then blushed intensely, introducing himself all over, to the background sound of Courfeyrac's laughter.

“I never said he wasn’t hot," Courfeyrac said. "I said he was smart. It’s not mutually exclusive, my Pontmerfriend.”

In Marius defence, they’ve been teaching him theory, after Cosette decided she liked the Amis for good, and he had grown on Combeferre — even if he exasperated him beyond measure at times — ever since he found out he talked five languages, read in seven, and was becoming fluent in another two. “A man needs someone to discuss his greek with,” he had said.

“That sounded really gay,” Courfeyrac had replied.

“Well, I  _ am  _ gay, Courf. But no, Marius  _ isn’t  _ my type. Not in a thousand years.”

“And in a thousand and one?”

“Fuck off, Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac had also told them Marius was incredibly "frustrated" (Marius words, not his), because he hadn't told him Combeferre was so ridiculously beautiful. Enjolras thought he really was, even now, under the dim lightened kitchen and lack of sleep — maybe it was how heated and enthusiastic he got about his paper.

After they had discussed most of it and then some. Enjolras said: “Hey, Ferre?”

“Yes?”

“If you had a secret, or if you needed someone there for you, you know I’m here, right? Even when we’re busy, or I look occupied with something else, you can always come to me if  you need help, right? You know I have your back?"

"Yes I know, Enjolras. And it goes back at you."

"So if you had something you needed to get out of your chest, and tell someone, I’m here.”

Combeferre looked directly at him, scrutinising his face for a moment, before softening his expression and smiling, genuinely, at his friend. "I know Enjolras. Where's this coming from  Enj? Are  _ you  _ alright?" But Enjolras had become too roused with the subject, apparently, and kept on talking, despite Combeferre's question.

“Even if you think it’d put our friendship at risk, you can always trust me, I’m here for you: I consider you my comrade, and my friend, and I really am glad I met you, so know whatever it is that you’re carrying, you don’t have to carry alone.”

“Enjolras?” Combeferre replied, trying not to laugh.

“Yes, Ferre?”

“Go to sleep.”

* * *

 

Sometimes the ABCs caught Combeferre speaking in other languages, or about people they didn't know, or places they hadn't visited. They all had seen him change, in a single sentence, from French to English, to Spanish to French again, back at English, and briefly to ancient Greek to make a passing remark at some conversation Jehan and Marius were having. Once, Bahorel said they even heard him speak Italian. Enjolras knows Combeferre has a life outside of the ABCs, a life which expands full of light, logos, and pathos overseas, into other continents and territories.

Sometimes he thinks Combeferre will leave them and panics. Objectively speaking, Les Amis could survive without Combeferre, he believes nothing would be the same without him.  _ He  _ wouldn’t be the same without him. Enjolras looks at Combeferre, talking to Musichetta and Feuilly — who’s making him another v60 — and it feels like his heart stops for a minute, imagining Combeferre doing exactly the same but somewhere else, with entirely different people. He thinks how Combeferre would just find more people for him to guide and softly lead along the way, because he is that wonderful, that smart, that capable, and he feels incredibly jealous of these fictional intruders he’s making up in his mind.

He also thinks Paris would become a lot more empty without Combeferre in it.

* * *

 

“Have you two ever even fought?” Grantaire asked Enjolras, but he was too focused staring at nothing to register his boyfriend was talking to him. “Babe! Enjolras! O MIGHT APOLLO!”

“Sorry, what?” Enjolras replied, blinking at his boyfriend. Grantaire, who was leaning back on his chair, his feet propped up, said something back at Enjolras but it died, because Combeferre talked at the same time as he did.

“Apollo listens to those who so eagerly call him, so, what is it, R?” Combeferre said, with a soft voice and a lopsided smile, as he sat on the closest table he could find.

"Oh, you're going directly into Apollo now?" Feuilly asked, lifting their eyes from their book. "I thought you were  _ no one but Apollo's favourite son _ ."

“Well yes, but I also am the eye with which the Universe beholds itself, and knows it is divine; All harmony of instrument or verse, all prophecy all medicine, is mine. All light of art or nature: to my song victory and praise in its own right belong,” Combeferre retorted.

“That’s  _ yours  _ ?” R said, lifting an eyebrow in genuine amazement.

“Oh, no, I wish. It’s Shelley’s.”

“ _ Of course  _ , it’s Shelley’s.” R replied with a laugh.

“Hey,” Jehan said, throwing a crumpled paper at R, playfully. “In this house we love and respect the Shelleys.”

“I have never implied otherwise. And I wouldn’t  _ dare  _  imply otherwise, I value my life, and I fear you two.” R said pointing at Jehan and then at Combeferre.

"I interrupted you, though," Combeferre said, "was were you saying?"

“Right, I was asking Enjolras if you two ever fought,” Grantaire replied.

“Oh, yes, once,” Combeferre said.

“Only once?” Joly asked, amazed and disbelieving.

“Yeah,” Enjolras confirmed, “only once.”

“Bossuet, we’ve been out- throned!” Joly said, shaking his boyfriend’s arm. “I don’t know what to do with this information. Or how I feel about this... What even was the fight about?”

“Well,” Combeferre began, “he broke my Chemex.”

“Can you break a Chemex?” Feuilly asked.

“It  _ is  _ really difficult,” R said, laughing, “but I guess if anyone could break one it’s either Bossuet or Enjolras.”

Everyone laughed with that, and Combeferre, still sitting on a table, propped one of his feet up on it, smiled at himself, and winked at Enjolras. It was conspiratorial, as if it was something only meant for them to know, and he thinks R could tell that’s not the whole story behind it, and while he didn't mind telling him later, telling him certainly feels  a little wrong _.  _ Neither him nor Combeferre were ones for lying, and Combeferre hadn’t lied, Enjolras  _ had  _ broken his Chemex, but that was more of an accidental consequence of the fight than the reason for it.

He had found Combeferre sitting, crossed legged, on their sofa, crying into his hands. He had seen Combeferre cry before, really cry, for different reasons, but it happened so rarely. Even if it didn't, Enjolras didn't think he'd ever get used to it, or less angry that something had made his friend upset. Enjolras and Combeferre cried in similar ways. They both were so wonderfully human, so achingly human,  they cried as if he had been carrying all the sorrows of the world, which is truly a too heavy burden for a single man to carry. But they'd carry it, if they had to.

Enjolras knows the running joke is he's the one who is heartless, but he thinks it's Combeferre the one who most often forgets he has a heart.

He was no longer sure of what had made them fight. He wasn't even sure he remembers the whole affair correctly, as he sometimes repressed things too emotionally charged to deal with. But Enjolras remembers as much: Combeferre had been crying about not being good enough, about some transphobic assholes, and some other racist and xenophobic "wastes-of-oxygen" who  could barely even speak their own mother tongue, but decided to do  _ him  _ dirty, and how he sometimes  felt so lost and displaced, like he wasn’t sure where home was, and all he wanted was to go home. How he had to be better, how he should be better, and about how when he called home, they told him it was his damn fault for being transgender and for being a smartass who could not keep quiet.

And suddenly his struggles were Enjolras’ struggles because they really were the same person with different outcomes, and he was trying to reach out to Combeferre, to this brilliant man who was both the moth and the flame, when he felt Combeferre putting up his various barriers up, and securing them with his various padlocks, and it had made him so angry and so hurt that Combeferre would push him away like that, Enjolras reacted without really thinking about it. And Combeferre, who had become more stubborn than ever, had simply refused to open up. One thing led to another, somehow they ended up in the kitchen and Enjolras dropped the Combeferre's Chemex with his elbow.

“Por la mismísima mierda, puta, la concha de mi madre, y la PERRA QUE ME PARIÓ,” Combeferre yelled into his hands.

The shattered glass scattered on the kitchen floor, and the coffee pooled around his feet. He had told Enjolras to get out, didn't let him help, and cleaned in silence, only to appear half an hour later on Enjolras’ door frame, apologising for having yelled at him. Enjolras had apologised too, and let Combeferre vent until well past midnight, telling him every single good thing he deserved, as Combeferre had done many times with him. Because Combeferre  _ was  _ constantly checking on everyone, reminding them to have a good day, and helped them solve their problems when he could. He was there for Enjolras when he faltered, and when he couldn’t find his way, or his keys. Combeferre, since they met, had decided Enjolras was worth his time, and always made sure he knew. So Enjolras did the same, because Combeferre was  _ his  _ friend, and  _ no one  _ wronged his friends. They both slept in the same bed that time, because Combeferre needed him, and that was that. They have never fought again.

Not even Courfeyrac knew this.

Enjolras was pulled out of his head by the noise in the Musain, and noticed Combeferre was texting someone, R, probably, because he moved his head in some indicative way, and his boyfriend checked his phone. If Combeferre told him the real reason of the fight, Enjolras didn't know, but he didn't feel it was the case: knowing R and Ferre it was more of a clarification it hadn't been just about a broken Coffee maker. Enjolras wasn't going to complain about it, he like some things, not many but some, belonged to Combeferre and himself alone. Like La Villete, and that one time they ran through the streets at 11 PM, or that tiny bookstore they discovered together one spring, and their never ending stream of married-to-each-other jokes.

“You know he adores you, don’t you?” Grantaire said, playing with Enjolras fingers as he spoke, later that day while they walked towards his place.

“Who?”

“Combeferre.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess I do. He is one of my best friends, to be honest. I did break that Chemex, by the way. But I got him a new one for his birthday that year.”

“Of course you did. You also know you and Combeferre are basically a single entity sometimes?”

Enjolras smiled, and hid his face against his boyfriend’s arm, because yes, he knew. He knew Combeferre loved him, and he hoped Combeferre knew how much  _ he  _ adores him.

* * *

 

Combeferre knew his friends had him (a little) pegged as super-human, but it didn't surprise him too much. He had always had issues with being fully grasped as  a person, instead of a concept with legs — not that  _ anything  _ he did helped dismantle that. He thought this is one of the many reasons why he gets along so well with Enjolras. There’s something about him which made Combeferre think maybe, one time, they  used to be parts of a same whole, and by virtue of chance, revolution or whatnot, they found each other so they could be whole again.

Combeferre thought something similar of all his friends, really: just like knowledge not shared was knowledge not had, a life lived in individuality (regardless the experience of it), was a life not lived.

He knows Enjolras, he knows him well. He didn't need him saying he was hungry for him to know he should probably bring him something to eat, because Enjolras wasn't going to stop what he was doing to grab something himself (besides Combeferre does the exact same thing); he knew how he took his coffee, and what look meant what, and how  for all Enjolras  _ was  _ an excellent leader (Combeferre knew he too  could lead, but didn't pretend he could do it better than Enjolras, or Courfeyrac) he wasn’t  _ that  _ excellent at reading people, or conventionally-accepted small talk, so he knew when to  say what, and when to aid him in talking with whom (although Courfeyrac and Feuilly had taken over from Combeferre, lifting some of the ever present weight on his shoulders. He was very happy for it).

Right now, Enjolras was sitting against Jehan, his feet propped up on Grantaire’s thighs — who's sitting in front of him. He’s laughing, he looked warm, and his blonde hair reflected the afternoon light like the coins at the bottom of a fountain reflected it, colliding with the water, and making the whole scene both human and unworldly. Because if Combeferre was asked to describe Enjolras it would be like a fountain people dropped their coins into, to ask for wishes and protections, and their dreams to come true. Enjolras who listened to all, who raged with the injustice they met, and who cared for all (all of those who deserved to be cared about, at least). Enjolras, who like the sun belonged to all the people.  _ Pandemos _ .

While Courfeyrac certainly was the one with the sunniest personality, followed by Joly who had the sun’s persistence to come out after storms, Enjolras was Combeferre’s sun-man in many ways. Once  he had written himself a born in effulgent light — it was a line which meant many things, from a piece of writing now forgotten and, sadly, a little neglected over his various responsibilities with the ABCs and his new internship. Yet out of all those things he meant, he never thought it would mean in this cyclic life he said everyone lived, he was partly born to reflect Enjolras. Everyday passed near his friend convinced him a little more that everyone got it wrong thinking the sun alone guides the perils and summits of mankind earth: it's what  rises  _ in absentia  _ of the sun what marked the sun’s schedule. Who, say,  _ guided  _ the sun.

He knew Enjolras doubts himself unwillingly, sometimes — thinking about different paths their lives could’ve taken, or what would’ve happened if Y happened instead of X; Combeferre does it too, sometimes. Combeferre  _ tried   _ not to dwell in those (he knew the one time Enjolras walked into the kitchen to try pry secrets out of him that just weren’t there, Enjolras must had been close to falling asleep, because he had a slight bed-head and he was in his pyjamas. And also, because around 35 minutes earlier he  _ had _  said good-night). It doesn’t mean he didn't sabotage himself too — he does —but while he was deeply fascinated by the thought he might have existed before in a different individuality, and Enjolras might have also existed with him, he cared a little more about today, and even more about  _ tomorrow _ .

All in all, the moon was nothing else than a different kind of sun, Combeferre thought.

Combeferre himself was sitting a little further from the group around Jehan, Enjolras, and R. He was listening to Feuilly talk about some of his latest early morning musings and readings, and exchanging bibliography, when Feuilly had stood up to go to the bathroom. Combeferre was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, bouncing one of his feet in  the air, face propped on his fist as he watched his friends be  _ alive   _ and  _ together _ , as if they had beat the odds of the stars and of themselves, and managed to come up with this timeline where they were Them, Les Amis de l'ABC. So whatever else which could have happened, was  something he would dwell in, because his friends  _ were _ , because Enjolras  _ was  _ , and the world had always seemed a little fuller ever since Enjolras walked into his life, balancing three boxes of his stuff, and colliding straight into Combeferre’s old bicycle, the one Bossuet accidentally dropped to the bottom of the Seine.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes on the fic from things I mention here and there.
> 
> — The title is a reference to Julius Caesar not John Green, please don’t do me dirty like that. — Before moving in to Paris, Combeferre was studying Medicine in the University of Edinburgh.  
> — Combeferre’s views on poetry derive from Percy Shelley’s Defence of Poetry  
> — Both Enjolras and Combeferre are trans men.  
> — The only white one is Marius.— Enjolras is black, Combeferre’s latinx. I don’t take criticism.  
> — “[I am] no one but Apollo’s favourite son”, as quoted by Feuilly, is from a poem, and the poem quoted by Combeferre (“[I] am the eye with which the Universe beholds itself, and knows it is divine; All harmony of instrument or verse, all prophecy all medicine, is mine. All light of art or nature: to my song victory and praise in its own right belong”) is from Hymn of Apollo by Percy Shelley.  
> — A Chemex is a coffee filtering method. Fun fact: the original Chemex is in the MoMA.  
> — “born in effulgent light” is also a verse from a poem.
> 
> I'm percvshelley in both twitter and tumblr if you wish to go say hi.


End file.
